


Near to Me

by belovedmuerto



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Sherlock doesn't like the Underground, Snogging, fluffy fluff, sensory issues, the Tube
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-06
Updated: 2011-10-06
Packaged: 2017-10-24 09:12:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/261615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belovedmuerto/pseuds/belovedmuerto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has sensory issues with the Tube. John distracts him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Near to Me

**Author's Note:**

> I've been having issues with the latest WIP for the empath!AU series. So I begged [Castiron](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Castiron/pseuds/Castiron) for a couple prompts. This was one of them. She helped me clean up my atrocious flogging of POV, and here we are. I have not begged of my lovely Brit-picker to look at this, as is usual with the fluffy bits; I just writes 'em and posts 'em.
> 
> p.s. I have no idea if "Tube" and "Underground" should actually be capitalized, but they are in my head, if that makes any difference.

Sherlock watches as John decides never to encourage him to use public transportation again very early into the tube ride back to Baker Street. At least he won’t ever have to suffer through this again. And ‘suffer’ is the only word for what he’s going through right now.

 It’s the tail end of the afternoon rush, and the train is still pretty packed. John had hoped it would be easier, but it’s Friday and everyone is trying to get home, or at least to the pub.

Every time someone (other than John) brushes against Sherlock he shudders, full body tremors that nearly make him groan aloud in pain--and it’s happening so often that Sherlock is basically trembling where he stands. Sherlock has ground his teeth together so hard he’s afraid one of them may crack. There is a muscle just under his left eye that has gone haywire--Sherlock has given up trying to will it into compliance and stands rigid, eyes shut, trying to keep out the assault of data, trying to shut down his senses so they’ll stop, trying to will his brain to _just stop just for a few minutes just long enough to get home that’s all I’m asking please_.

It isn’t working.

John inches closer to him. Sherlock wonders if his flatmate can feel the nerves that are churning in his stomach, the panic gripping him tight and trying to claw its way up his throat. Sherlock never panics, _this is ridiculous_. Sherlock also never takes the tube anywhere.

“Sherlock? Are you going to manage?” he asks.

Sherlock nods, almost.

“Jesus, I’m sorry. I swear I’ll never complain about the money we spend on cabs again. Why did you even agree to this?”

Sherlock isn’t able to answer. It hadn’t been this bad the last time he’d been on the Underground. Of course, it has been twelve years. And he’d been high at the time.

At the next stop, John snags a seat and pushes Sherlock into it, crowding close in front of him, trying to block out everyone around them with his compact form. Sherlock is able to think just enough to be vaguely grateful. As more people cram themselves into the train like sardines, John ends up standing between Sherlock’s knees, holding on to the rail above him to keep from toppling over. Sherlock clenches his hands against his thighs and squeezes his eyes shut.

“Sherlock, look at me.”

Sherlock shakes his head vigorously. He hears John’s sigh (the frustrated-but-I’d-still-do-anything-for-you sigh) and feels John grab one of his hands and place it against John’s own stomach. John is wearing one of his oldest, softest jumpers, and Sherlock understands immediately what John is thinking, what he’s trying to do, and Sherlock feels that undefined sense of gratitude swell. He hopes the texture will be enough to help, at least a little.

“Concentrate on this, Sherlock. Focus here.”

Sherlock shudders through several deep breaths before he’s able to unclench his hand against John’s sweater. It does help, though not nearly enough. His hand moves, seemingly of its own accord, slowly over John’s torso, feeling the texture of the wool, of the cables woven into it, and below that feeling the contours of John’s body. John is still lean and muscular, he notes, the barest hint of softness at his waist. Higher up, as his hand moves, there’s John’s sternum, his ribs, his heartbeat.

That, finally, is something to concentrate on. John’s heartbeat is steady. It is something to lean upon, just like John is. John’s always there, his steady friend, flatmate, helpmeet. John is sometimes the only thing keeping him alive.

Unfortunately, this tactic only works for a few minutes, before the press of humanity weighs in on him again, before his senses and his brain go into overload again, and his breath starts to hitch. He can’t control it, he can’t stop it, it _won’t stop_. His hands clench in John’s sweater, and John makes a noise of sympathy.

“John, do something,” he murmurs. He can’t help it, can’t help himself.

“Are you sure?” comes the reply.

Surprised, Sherlock looks up at John. There’s a gleam in his eye, mischief. He doesn’t know how to interpret that, and he blames the surroundings, blames the influx of data that he just can’t stop.

“Please.”

John shrugs. “As you wish.” And he kisses Sherlock.

It starts slow, a brush of soft lips against his own; five fingers creep around to the nape of his neck, up into his hair, the other five dance across his cheekbone. He can’t help but note the texture of John’s lips (softer than he’d thought), the pressure against his own (not nearly enough, _more please_ ), the way John leans against him, focuses entirely on kissing him, as if Sherlock is the only person in the world. Someone makes a noise, soft and eager; Sherlock’s afraid it might be himself.

John smiles against his lips, murmurs “Shh.”

Sherlock obeys. His hands creep around John, lodging themselves in his sweater, against his back. John makes a nasal sound of approval and slowly licks his way into Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock clings while his whole world narrows down to John’s lips, John’s teeth, John’s tongue.

John, he’s pretty sure after just a few seconds, kisses like a god. And he’s pretty sure he could be perfectly happy just like this, kissing John, John’s hands against his cheek and in his hair, tugging gently, his own hands fisted in John’s sweater, surrounded by John, smelling nothing but John, this right here, this can, all of it, last for the rest of time and he would be entirely pleased with that outcome.

The jolt of the train stopping pulls them apart, and Sherlock immediately notices they’re being watched. John cocks his head to listen to the announcement over the tinny PA, hums and returns to kissing the daylights out of his flatmate before Sherlock can say anything about the people watching them.

Sherlock forgets they’re being watched. Sherlock forgets everything except for the texture of John’s jumper under his fingers and the texture of John’s lips against his own.

Until, that is, the next time the stopping train interrupts their momentum.

“John, everyone is watching us.”

John chuckles. “Trust me, Sherlock, no one here has never seen two blokes snogging on the train before.” He grabs Sherlock’s hand and tugs him up. “This is our stop, c’mon.”

Sherlock feels a blush creeping up his neck as they thread their way through the crowd to the doors, him trailing in John’s confident wake. But he also can’t help catching the eye of the little old lady who reminds him of Mrs Hudson.

She winks at him, and he can’t help but grin back. Maybe the Tube isn’t so terrible after all.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for Near to Me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/611587) by [moonblossom graphics (moonblossom)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom%20graphics)




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